Even Vampires Get the Blues (3 page)

“I met a woman yesterday you might like,” Daniel said thoughtfully. “I could ring her up before we leave—”

“No!” Paen said quickly, a little chill running through him. “I've had enough of Avery all but pimping for me—I've no need for any more of you bringing home women you just know will turn out to be my Beloved. I don't need a woman to save me. I'm perfectly happy, in a completely non-brooding way, just as I am, and besides, I'm well on the way to locating the
Simia Gestor Coda.
”

“Oh, not that faery story again,” Daniel said, rolling his eyes.

“It's not a faery story.”

“I know, I know,” Daniel said, holding up his hands. “This book you're always going on about supposedly contains the details about the origins of Dark Ones, including a way to unmake the curse binding you guys.”

“Exactly. I just have to find it, and I will be able to lift the curse myself. Completely without the assistance of any interfering woman, thank you.”

“Paen, you've looked for the last twenty-five years for that manuscript—I think it's time you admit it doesn't exist,” Avery said. The others nodded. “I don't know why you're so bent on fighting the fact that you need a woman to save you. Women are nice! They are smooth, and they smell good, and god knows they do things to my body that make my eyes cross with bliss. You need to get off this high horse of ‘I'll save myself' and get with the program, brother. Find your Beloved, let her save you, and make lots of little Paens.”

Paen glared at his irresponsible brother. “Just because I can keep my dick in my pants and you can't—”

“Oh, I can, it's just a lot more fun out and about,” Avery answered, pausing to punch Finn in the shoulder until keys to a car were handed over. “Ta, mate. We're off to this abbey of fun. I'll call and let you know how many women I manage to find there, too.”

“Between the fast cars and faster women, you're going to kill yourself one of these days,” Paen warned.

“One of the perks of being immortal, brother, is
the ability to do whatever you want whenever you want, and to hell with the consequences. You should try it sometime.”

A muscle in Paen's jaw twitched. “One of us has to have some responsibility and keep things together while Mum and Dad are off.”

Avery rolled his eyes and left the sitting room. Daniel grabbed his jacket and followed after his brother, saying, “I'm with Av on this, Paen. You need to loosen up a bit, and let go of some of that responsibility you're always harping on. I've got my mobile phone. I'll give you a ring if we find anything.”

“Well?” Paen turned to his remaining brother. “Don't tell me you're going to pass up an opportunity to get in a few digs about how I need to ignore the castle, the family, and Mum's eternal happiness and instead live like there's no tomorrow.”

Finn grinned. “Could I pass up such a wonderful chance? All that repressed sexuality—what you really need is to fall in love with some delicious bird, fuck your brains out, let her save you, and try out happy instead of gloomy.”

“Do you know how tiring it gets repeating that I don't need a Beloved? Women I can, and do, have whenever I'm struck with the desire for sex. A female doesn't need to bind herself to me to satisfy my sexual desires.”

“I can't believe I'm going to say this, but here goes—Paen, you're missing out on a whole world of pleasure by keeping yourself at an emotional distance from women. You might as well use slags for all the involvement you have with them. I know you equate feeling affection for a woman with a Beloved,
but you know, you can actually
like
a woman you sleep with without her saving you. Maybe even love her a little, if you're determined not to find your true better half.”

“I don't have a better half,” Paen said, fighting the desire to punch something,
anything
. “I'm whole as I am. I might be in eternal torment, but love, souls, and emotional commitments are all overrated. If I didn't know that for myself, all I'd have to do is look at you lot. Always falling in love with some woman or other, then moping around when they end up stomping all over your hearts—no, thanks. If all you're going to do is lecture me, you might as well go, too.”

“I was about to ask what you wanted me to do to help you,” Finn said with a grin.

“To find the statue?” Paen ran a hand through his hair, happy to change the subject of conversation. “You can't.”

“Not technically, no. So what can I do to help
you
find it?”

Paen felt as if the weight of the world had descended upon his shoulders. “To be honest, I've no idea where to even start looking for it. I've never come across a mention of it in the family papers, and since Dad is completely incommunicado until someone tracks him down and forces a satellite phone into his hand, I'm at a loss as to where to begin searching. It could be in the castle, hidden somewhere. It could have been lost or stolen or sold over the years, and I'd have no way of knowing.”

“Hmm,” Finn said. “Sounds like we need some professional help.”

“What sort of professional help?” Paen asked as
his brother went to the phone. “If it's anything involving demons, it's right out. We're in enough trouble because of them.”

Finn dug around in his jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of miscellaneous items, extracting a blue sticky note from his keys and change. “Not a demon. I met a woman last week in Edinburgh, an underwear model—man, she had great tits, just how I like them, big enough for my hands but not fake-looking—and she said her cousin was trained as a Diviner, and the two of them were just opening up a private detective business. I bet a Diviner could figure out where the statue is. I'll give Clare a ring and get the cousin's number.”

“Might as well,” Paen said glumly as he slumped down into a chair. Despite his protestations to the contrary, he wanted nothing more than to brood about the latest trial fate had dumped on him. As if things weren't bad enough already . . . “It's not like a Diviner could make things any worse.”

“What do you think of the sign?”

Clare set down a box of desk supplies and a bouquet of fresh cut flowers, and frowned. “Well, to be honest, Sam, I wasn't going to say anything about it, but I don't think the crow landing on your head this morning is a good omen. It means your life is about to go crisis central. But I'm here to help, and you know I'll do what I can to keep you from going outright insane.”

“No . . . I meant the sign on the door.” I nodded to where a local sign painter was putting away her stencils and paints.

“Oh. Mmm.” Clare tipped her head and considered the freshly painted words on the upper half of the open office door. “
EYE SCRY
,
SAMANTHA COSSE AND CLARE BENNET
,
DISCREET PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
. It's nice, but I still think it's a bit too strange. People are going to think we're not normal private investigators.”

“We aren't normal, Clare.”

“Speak for yourself. I'm as normal as they come.” She plucked a tulip from the bouquet and went to the
window, using her elbow to wipe a small clean patch on the grimy glass. “Isn't it a lovely morning?”

I glanced out the window at the grey, sodden-looking sky, and shrugged as I arranged paper in my new printer/copier/fax machine. “It's a typical Scottish May: grey, cold, and wet.”

“When I woke up this morning,” Clare said dreamily, unconsciously striking an elegant pose that made her a star on the fashion runways, “the dew had kissed all the sweet little flowers just as if faeries had danced upon them with damp little slippers. Don't you think that's lovely? I thought that up all by myself.”

“Very, um . . .” Clare blinked silver-tipped lashes at me. I relented under her hopeful expression. “Very poetic. But not terribly accurate, is it?”

She blinked again, her large blue eyes clouded with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well . . . just look at you.” I waved a hand toward her torso. “You're the opposite of short, sturdy, dark-haired me—you're tall, lovely, elegant, and have that silver blond hair that everyone seems to rave about, but you're hardly in a dancing-on-the-dew-kissed-flowers sort of form, are you? You'd squash the little buggers flat were you to try it in your human form.”

She rolled her expressive eyes and bopped me on the arm with her tulip. Clare always had flowers with her—she couldn't help it any more than my mother could. It was just part of their genetic makeup. “You're going to start that silly business again, and I won't listen to it, I simply won't listen to it.”

I took her by both arms and shook her gently. “You're a faery, Clare. It's time you face up to that
fact. You're a faery, your real name is Glimmerharp, and you were left with my aunt and uncle because your faery parents wanted you to have a better life than running around in wet shoes, stamping dew onto flowers. I doubt if they would have done so had they known that your idea of a better life is to parade up and down in scanty lingerie in front of strangers with cameras, but that's neither here nor there. You are a faery, and the sooner you admit that, the happier everyone around you will be.”

“I am not a faery; I am an underwear model.”

“You're both.”

“Oh!” She plucked a piece of the smooth red tulip's flower and popped it in her mouth. “You take that back!”

“I won't,” I said calmly, releasing her to hook the printer up to the laptop that sat on the scarred and battered oak desk I'd claimed as my own. “It's the truth, and you know it, even if you are in denial.”

“You're a fine one to talk about denial!” she said, marching over to her desk, a trail of tulip petals gently drifting to the floor behind her. “You deny your heritage every chance you get.”

I laughed. I couldn't help it—the mere thought of me being able to ignore who I was, was beyond ridiculous. “There's no way I could deny my parentage—not after growing up the only kid in my neighborhood whose mother is a bona fida poetry-spouting, pointy-eared, gonna-live-forever elf. Years of Keebler jokes made sure I knew just how different I was, and we won't even go into what a mention of
Lord of the Rings
does to me. What I've never understood is how you can accept the fact that my mother
is an elf, and yet insist that there are no such things as faeries.”

“I refuse to talk to you when you get in that mood,” Clare said, and picked up an empty milk jug she'd brought to serve as a vase. “I won't let you ruin the excitement of the day with all that nonsense.”

“Excitement?” I looked around the small office as Clare left to fill the vase with water. The painter had toddled off, leaving the faint odor of acrylic paints behind her. Through the open door I could see a dark, dingy hallway that led to a couple of flats and a shared bathroom.

“That's not quite the word that comes to mind,” I said loud enough that Clare could hear me down the hall. “But never fear! A little elbow grease and some creative decorating courtesy of that thrift store you saw on the way in should do much to wipe out the years of neglect. I just wish Mila would come and get her boxes of sex toys.”

Clare's muffled voice drifted into the room as I crawled under the desk to plug in the computer equipment. “You shouldn't have told her she could keep her stock here.”

“I had a hard enough time persuading her to rent this office to me—ow!” I rubbed the back of my head where I cracked it on the underside of the desk. “Evidently her sex store is doing a tremendous amount of business and she needs all the storage space she can get. Besides, she knocked a hundred pounds off the rent just for us putting up with a few extra boxes.”

Clare's answer was drowned out by the sound of running water. I scooted backward under the desk,
dragging with me the phone cord to plug in the new set of phones I'd purchased. “Regardless of the naughty toys, I don't know how exciting this job is going to be to someone who spends time in Milan and Paris and Berlin being paid thousands of pounds to stand around and pout in her panties.”

“It's not nearly as exciting as you might think,” Clare said, coming back into the room. “That's why I decided to go on hiatus for a year. My modeling batteries need to be recharged, and this job should do wonders for that.”

“Eh . . . OK.” I plugged the cord into the appropriate wall socket, and jumped violently when the phone above me rang loudly, causing me to whack my head on the desk a second time.

“Phone,” Clare said helpfully.

“Oh, thank you. I might have thought it was my umbrella ringing, otherwise.” I hunkered down under the desk rubbing my abused head.

“I'll get it,” Clare said, hurrying over to her desk. “Your umbrella is ringing. Honestly, Sam! Your imagination! Good morning, Eye Scry, discreet private enquiries, this is Clare. How can I help?”

I crawled out from under my desk, wondering as I brushed off the dusty knees of my pants who was calling us. I'd only set up the phone lines the day before, and had given the number out to just one person other than Clare. It was probably just the phone company checking to see if the line worked. I turned on my laptop and sat down at my desk while Clare made little murmurs of encouragement to whoever was on the phone.

“I see. Well, I don't believe that will be a problem,
Mr. Race. My partner has a particular talent with finding lost objects. Oh, you did?” Clare looked at me, her eyes round. “Then perhaps it would be best if you talked to her yourself. Can you hold? Thank you.”

“Lost items?” I asked. “That's not a client, is it?”

“Yes, it is. It's a Mr. Owen Race. He's a medieval specialist of some sort, and he wants us to find some sort of an antique book for him. But Sam—he says that Brother Jacob recommended you to him. I thought you were kicked out of the Order of Diviners?”

“I was, but Jake said he'd keep an ear out for me for anyone who might be able to use the services of a failed Diviner. Sounds like he found someone. Hello, this is Samantha Cosse. I understand you need some help locating an object?”

Like Clare's, the man's voice was English, very upper-class, positively reeking of places like Eton and Cambridge and of the BBC. It made me all the more aware of my flat, accentless (to my ears) Canadian speech. “Good morning, Miss Cosse. Yes, as I told your associate, I am seeking to locate a very rare medieval manuscript that was stolen from me recently—the
Simia Gestor Coda
is its name. I understand from Brother Jacob at the Diviners' House that you studied there for several years and have a good deal of experience in locating missing items?”

Oh dear. He wanted a Diviner, and I was anything but one. I'd have to let him know right away that I wasn't what he thought I was. “I've had some luck locating missing items, yes. But if you are seeking the assistance of a true Diviner, Mr. Race, I'm afraid you may have been misled. I did study at the Diviners' House with the Order, but I was . . . well, to put it
bluntly, I was kicked out before my novitiate was completed. Although I have been trained in elementary divination, I'm afraid I am unable to conduct the more advanced rituals.”

“I see. I appreciate such frankness, and can assure you that I have no need for the services of a professional Diviner. Brother Jacob recommended you to me because you apparently have a talent for locating items that goes beyond mere divination.”

I slumped back in my chair in relief. I hadn't anticipated Jake sending me a customer, despite his declarations that he would do all he could to help me, but now that I had bared the ugly truth in my past, I could focus on the job being offered. “I will be happy to put the full resources of my firm at your disposal,” I said. “Perhaps we can meet to discuss this further?”

“Excellent. I'm in Barcelona at the moment, but I would be happy to pay your airfare out here.”

I blinked back my surprise. “Er . . . I appreciate the offer, Mr. Race, but we are still in the process of setting up our business, and I wouldn't be comfortable leaving all the remaining work to my partner.” I motioned to Clare and wrote
he wants me to go to Barcelona
on the notepad. Clare looked panicky. I'd had to promise her, when we thought up the idea of the investigation agency, that I would handle all of what she termed the “messy businessy stuff.”

“Sam, no,” she whispered.

“Don't worry,” I mouthed, then said into the phone, “That's very generous of you, but I'm afraid it's out of the question. However—” I raised my eyebrows in question. Clare nodded quickly. “However,
my partner would be available to fly to Barcelona. She would be very happy to stand in my place and discuss with you all the necessary details.”

“Erm . . . no, that won't be necessary,” he said, sounding disappointed. I shook my head at Clare. “I will be returning to Edinburgh at the end of the week, so we can meet then.”

“I would be happy to get started on your project if you can give me the details over the phone,” I said in my most professional voice, opening a text document. “Why don't you give me the specifics of the item that was stolen, and later you can fax me any insurance documents you have, as well as the police report.”

Twenty minutes later I hung up the phone and hit
SAVE
on my document file.

“Well?” Clare asked, absently nibbling on a carnation. “Do we have a job?”

I smiled. “We are employed! Let fly the doves and all that.”

“Hurrah! I told you this was going to be exciting! Although I'm disappointed I won't be going to Barcelona. Such a pretty city. So, we're looking for a book?”

“Yes, some sort of medieval manuscript that was stolen. Evidently Mr. Race has quite a collection, and he didn't notice the theft until he had ordered an inventory of his holdings a month ago. He's going to have his housekeeper round up some information about the manuscript, but until then, we can get to work on the little info he gave me. He believes the manuscript could well have been taken by a rival collector.”

“Oooh. How thrilling! It's like an art theft, only with a medieval book.”

“Mmm,” I said, gathering up my bag and jacket. “I'm going to go visit a couple of antique shops and see if I can't get some info on who the big collectors are in Britain.”

“What would you like me to do?” Clare asked, chewing another bit of flower.

“You'd better stop eating those flowers, or you won't have anything left but a vase full of stems,” I said at the door.

She shot me a look of pure outrage. “I do not eat flowers!”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at the half-eaten carnation in her hand. She glared at it for a minute as if it had magically appeared there. “You're a faery, Clare. No one else eats flowers but really hard-core vegetarians, and I've seen you wolf down a steak, so I know you're not that. If you want to do something helpful, do an Internet search for me on the”—I consulted my notes—“
Simia Gestor Coda.
With a name like that, it has to have some sort of a history. I'd like to know everything you can find out about its past. All Mr. Race told me was that it was written by a mage who was supposedly in Marco Polo's service. Oh, also, pull up a list of the major antiquities dealers for England. It wouldn't hurt to know who might be dealing in something like a rare antique manuscript.”